This morning I get up and the sky is so clear and blue and high we might as well be in the desert, and my boy in his hood and balaclava with only his eyes visible looks like a Tuareg among the white snow dunes, or is it Berbers I'm thinking of, and by looking closely at his eyes I can tell that he is smiling as usual. The light whuff-whuff of cold-stiffened jeans is like the sound of a large bird's wings beating the air very close to your ear. The sun is still low over the roofs across the street, casting long shadows that dye the snow indigo, but elsewhere the white is blinding. The road, plowed, packed, and still unsalted, is like alabaster, the way it would stay for weeks at a time when I was little, before they went hogwild with salt. I am shovelling the driveway, the blade scraping down the long swath I've cleared braying deep like a camel and echoing. I lift and shake the welcome mat and a hundred little snow-diamonds fall out of the rubber grid and land at my feet. I see that the brother-in-law of our late neighbour Portuguese Manny has already been by with his snowblower down the sidewalk before the city can get to it; this reminds me of how Manny used to have his half of the driveway shovelled by dawn, and would watch me shovelling or in spring digging the garden and say that no woman of his would ever hold a shovel, and was I brought up on a farm or how did I know how to trim the hedges? Manny used to give us grilled fish and homemade wine and fruit and vegetables, he had a veritable farm/orchard of his own in his backyard, but that now he is gone it is gone too. I would do their side of the driveway but the son Kevin would be embarrassed. Having finished shovelling I go inside and my legs sting as if sunburned. I could do anything now, it is still early and I am all energy, and I think maybe "invigorating" when used of cold is not a euphemism after all, and sometimes the inconvenient beauty of winter stops my breath.
But then, I have a warm house. Like a Canada Goose, I loudly make all the true-north-strong-and-free noises but wimp out of winter at the end; if I could fly, I'd be down south too.
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I am tempted to perpetuate the stereotype of the Great White North, but in fact the climate in the part of the country where we three live (Jonathan, Lance, I) is about the same as New York. If you look on your map, you'll see the southern point of Ontario dips down well below the most northerly parts of the US. We have it on good authority that our last bit of "horrific weather" actually came from the US. We do get a good three and a half months of summer, four if you throw in Indian Summer! And I wouldn't trade the fall for anything.
For my part, I've often wondered how you guys down there can STAND it without Tim Horton's!!
Debbie
Well. Speaking for the Okies across the globe who died a thousand deaths the day they learned that Clint Eastwood was starring in a musical (so many years ago) -- for those who resist thier "feminine" side, perferring to believe that men must present the differences innately held by the two sexes - another absolutely awesome post. A Seinfeld moment with class. Whether a presentation of a learned skill or a statement from heart, or both, a wonderful moment in the life -------------------- and I don't even know who Tim Horton is !!
Thank you
JD
